


Semblance

by wreckofherheart



Series: Schnapps Shots [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angie's perspective on the hands of her previous lovers. And, of course, Peggy's. [Peggy/Angie]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semblance

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two ridiculously so, and always think of these tiny drabbles. I'm probably going to make a series out of them.  
> Thank you for reading if you do! I hope you enjoy.

     Angie likes it when a woman presses her palms onto her body. She likes how her fingers tickle her sensitive flesh, as they glide up the curve of her waist. She likes their softness, the gentle push as their palms sink into her stomach, her thighs, her breasts. She likes a woman’s hand in her own, clutching, but still with the right amount of tenderness only a woman can share. She likes a woman’s hand caressing her cheek, or combing through her hair, or other places she really should not let another woman _touch_.

 

     Always, she notices the painted nails, the manicured fingers, and those types of hands are her favourite. She’s been with women who have such delicate fingers, warm palms, and she loves, loves, _loves_ a woman who knows how to _use_ her fingers. She enjoys the shudder when a woman’s hands graze down her thighs, smoothing across her tummy. There are hands which are firm, holding her hips so tightly they leave marks in her skin. Yet, there are other hands which are so fragile, so teasing and _subtle_ , that of a ghost––those hands are the ones she remembers.Those are the hands of a woman who can make her scream.

 

     Once, she dated an artist. Her hands were always coated in paint––always. Rough hands due to the paints and colourful water she surrounded herself in.

 

     There are others. A ballerina. Long, feminine fingers; she’d always graze her thumb over Angie’s lower lip fondly after a kiss. 

 

     An engineer. She was always soft when holding Angie’s face, but when they were under the sheets, she had a knack for gripping her too hard. 

 

     There are hands she has held. Girlfriends. Intertwined her fingers with, admiring the structure and colour of their nails, knuckles, wrists. Hands reveal a lot about the person, she realises. Hands are important when finding a lover. Hands must be soft and smooth. She likes hands which caress her at night, and in the morning just before work. She likes to be touched. She likes a woman's palms pressing into her back, cupping her breasts. 

 

     She likes it when a woman twirls a strand of hair around her finger. She notices the woman who nervously bites her nails. The women who flick out their little finger when raising a mug of coffee to their lips. She likes the hesitance and eagerness as their fingers frantically unbutton her uniform, pull away at her tights, soft and sweet around her neck as they kiss. 

 

     Hands embracing her while she and her make forbidden love.

 

     The woman sitting opposite her, across the table, is a soldier of sorts. She's busy writing a letter, a pen balanced between her middle finger and thumb. Her hands are quite small, plain. Her discipline shows: clean, clipped nails. Sometimes the colour of her scarlet lips when it's a special evening. At first glance, her hands appear smooth, like velvet, and so tempting to touch. Angie has always been aware of the occasional cut. Possibly on a finger, across the back of a hand; the odd graze which only makes this woman more intriguing. More wounds show, and the woman hides them well with her sleeve, or having her palms face down on the table. What she hides is sore skin; red, inflamed and dry due to the heavy artillery, the weapons, the physical combat she's involved in almost on a daily basis. They are hands Angie has never seen before: a mix of something sweet, and yet violent.

 

     These hands have killed.

 

     And these hands have also loved.

 

     Hands which have been neglected. Untouched for so many months, years even. The woman's selflessness is expressed through her own abuse––she does not notice her own injuries, but that of others. 

 

     That is why Angie leans over, takes her hand in both of hers, and kisses her inflamed palm.

 

     Peggy's hands smell of lavender and the cold trigger of a gun. 

 

     She squeezes Angie's own affectionately; smiles.


End file.
